Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  “I protected myself. The staff is the only affectation we carry, and it is a weapon not of attack but of defense.”

  Sorin frowned, trying to understand. “But you killed the dragon.”

  Relnyn looked down, sadness in his eyes. “Remember what I told you of the Darkrell? They live among us, a part of our society. They are raised as everyone else, but their passions and ancient seeds of my people’s history take root in and grow within them.”

  “They are quick to anger, right?” Sorin asked.

  “And judgment. Patience is beyond them. Only a handful live, shunned by our culture.” Relnyn swallowed hard, about to say something but stopped, before continuing. “Yes, I did kill the dragon. I am not proud of what I did and nor would my brethren respect it. But the dragon ought not to have been there—the beasts are mountain dwellers. It was an unnatural occurrence, and it was either let you all die fighting it alone or help protect the monastery and its people.”

  Deep-seeded sorrow emanated from Relnyn’s eyes. “I am sorry for bringing it up, Relnyn,” Sorin said.

  “Tomorrow night is the mid-summer festival we call the Solstice Dance,” Relnyn said, brightening. “It’s a celebration of our beginning as well as our future. I am inviting you, and it might help ease your worry for Thomas. I hope it eases my troubled mind of the past few days.”

  Sorin followed Relnyn’s gaze. The young Giant’s song had ended. In her hands was a new staff, luminous as though slick with rain. Even in the distance, Sorin could see she beamed with great pride and joy.

  Chapter 15

  When the day pulled its dark covers over its head and night had fallen over the forest city of Lockwood, Sorin left his private chamber in search of Relnyn. The last few birdcalls of the day dwindled as their owners settled in to rest, but the Giant city was alive with sound and in full preparation for the Solstice Dance that would culminate with their procession to the Sentinels. He did not know why it played such a prominent role in Lockwood, but the energy permeating the city was infectious. It was clearly something dear to their hearts.

  After he and Relnyn had returned from their visit with the Sentinels the day earlier, Sorin had fallen into a deep, undisturbed sleep. The rush of the last few days had finally taken its toll on him, and when his head hit the enormous pillow in his quarters, it was only moments before his weariness relieved him of awareness. No dream plagued his sleep; no interruptions intruded. He had woken only briefly in the late afternoon and had taken the opportunity to eat an apple and some mixed nuts while visiting Thomas. Then he had returned to his bed and fell into a more normal, dream-filled rest.

  The old man’s condition had remained unchanged, although Berylyn watched over him. Thomas was pale like the embodiment of death. The black veins were still evident, twisting angrily over most of his left torso, but their progress had halted. Along with an herbal remedy her ancient book had supplied to counteract the poison, Berylyn had cauterized the dragon scrape, and Thomas’s arm lay bandaged. The healer was hopeful, but her words carried a hidden warning as well—time would decide the fate of Thomas and nothing else could.

  As Lockwood’s residents told it, the Honey Moon—a full moon on the solstice—was rare, only happening every two decades, and the Dance tonight would be a special occurrence for Sorin. He still did not know what he would see, but the excitement helped dull the worry he had for Thomas.

  Sorin caught Relnyn looking at him as they entered the thick forest, part of a long line of Giants—some old, some young, and some carrying babies—weaving toward the Sentinel Glade. “If he were going to die, Sorin, he would have done it by now,” Relnyn assured him solemnly.

  “He’s all I have, other than you now,” Sorin noted sadly. “And he is the only person who knows who we are to speak to in Aris Shae.”

  “Thomas is a tough old man; it is in his very blood. He can’t change that, just like I can’t change how the moon rises. Whether he likes it or not, he will live. Besides, what you just said is not true. Thomas told me where he was taking you and who would receive you.”

  Sorin could not hide his surprise. “When did he do that?”

  Relnyn chuckled, but it was weak and half-hearted. “He told me at A’lum. Now, in retrospect, I think he did so to relieve himself of some imagined duty. It’s because he knew he wouldn’t be going.”

  “Are you saying Thomas wants to die?” Sorin asked, worried anew. “Why would he want to die?”

  “Something eats at him, Sorin. Its roots are deep and were planted long ago I suspect. He probably feels as though it is time for him to give up. The dragon gave him that opportunity, and he embraced it. The problem is the world is the ultimate judge of that, and it isn’t his time. Not yet, anyway.”

  Conflicting emotions of hope and revenge rose inside him. “What else did he tell you?”

  “He told me Aris Shae was your destination and that it was important for you to get there.” Relnyn looked up at the sky as if the answers were there. “Once arrived, I was to speak to the High King for permission to enter the Wyllspring Garden. The rest I won’t reiterate; it’s not my place. Thomas really didn’t ask me to accompany you—he ordered me and I couldn’t deny him. He didn’t guarantee answers, only that you’d have a chance to ask questions. You’d better wait for him to speak more. Like I said, he isn’t dying.”

  Thomas had refused to tell Sorin anything; there was a time for answers and a time to come to know them, he had said. Sorin had been raised with patience, but even that was growing thin. What Relnyn told him assuaged his curiosity, but Sorin knew that would not last. The events of his life had led him down this path, and at its end were answers he wanted badly. The burning need to discover the reason behind his parents’ deaths was second to making the thing responsible pay for their actions. He hoped Relnyn was right; he hoped answers were at Aris Shae.

  The forest dissipated and the Sentinels rose before him again, a black presence against the star field. The moon’s luminous disc was larger than Sorin remembered. He doubted its light would be able to penetrate the shadowy center of the large trees, and he wondered what was so special about the Solstice Dance to bring this multitude outdoors so late at night.

  He passed into the midst of the Sentinels, his eyes adjusting to see by. The space he crossed between two of the trees was like a large vaulted hallway of limbs, what lay at its end invisible. The ground was flat and settled, the Sentinels’ roots driven far beneath the meadow. Sorin breathed in the cool air; summer had only begun to rear itself as the humid beast it could be and with every day that passed it pushed its heat deeper into the night. But it was lost in the Glade. The deeper he walked the stronger the cedar smell strengthened along with a mixture of rich black soil, blooming flowers, and tumbling water. The terrible aspect of his life dissipated and Sorin felt more alive than he had in several weeks.

  A large, circular field unfolded before him then, the line of Giants dispersing. Underfoot, soft moss with patches of green clover carpeted the entire meadow. Several primordial rhododendrons littered the area randomly, their gnarled limbs carrying flowers in crimson, lavender, and gold. A thin ribbon of silver trickled to his right, a rill branching from the waterfall and swinging through the clearing. The trees were a natural fortress, and all were safe within their shadows as stars winked at Sorin with their cool light through a small opening in the Sentinel’s canopy.

  Oryn saw him and nodded his approval. Some of the younger Giants climbed into the Sentinels, their view from above unhindered by their brethren. Those Giants who did not climb into the branches formed a horseshoe around the meadow’s periphery, facing an oddly-shaped rock formation near the brook, its black stone jutting out of the land in twisted angles.

  As he stepped closer, Sorin realized it was not just a rock but the statue of a horse.

  It was a large one, longer in hands than even Creek, and it was blacker than the night around it. It was rearing as though saluting the Giants in their half-circle, and Sorin could
feel the power the artist had captured with its forelegs pawing the air, its mouth open slightly in mid-whinny, and its tail and mane waving in the air lending it vibrant motion. Ivy twined lovingly from the ground to the knees of the horse’s hind legs, the vines’ pointed green leaves a splash of color against the darkness of the stone. The statue was immaculate and showed no sign of weathering or wear.

  “You like it?” Relnyn inquired, following Sorin’s gaze.

  “Yes. How did it come to be here? I haven’t seen a horse the entire time here.”

  “They’d be too small for us anyway, wouldn’t they?” Relnyn whispered, afraid to disturb those around him. He grinned. “It is the horse of Aerom, or so our legends say. When Aerom spread his word throughout the land to peacefully quell the slaughter of the Feyr and end the War of the Kingdoms, he needed a means to travel swiftly. It is said among my people that the land molded the horse from its own stone to give a servant to Aerom. The martyr named him Artiq, an evolution of the Feyr verb aerique—to ride powerfully. The stallion was his constant guide.”

  “In the Codex,” Sorin started, looking up at Relnyn, “Aerom molds Artiq from black clay and gives him life through the All Father’s will. You make it sound as though the horse was a gift from the land, not from the All Father.”

  “To historians, scholars, and religious leaders, how Aerom came by Artiq probably matters and is even argued about extensively. That’s what such people do—they take doctrine and debate it.”

  “How do you know this is Artiq? It could be just a sculpture by a finely adept craftsman.”

  Relnyn shook his head. “The statue was here when we arrived at the Sentinels all those centuries ago, Sorin. Our histories are firm about that. Could someone have placed it here before us—yes they could have. Is it probable? No. I tend to trust my ancestors and our records. And besides—there is a power emanating from it, a majesty that can’t be denied.”

  “The Codex says when the Fatherhead knew his end was imminent, he sent his horse from him, into the hills, far away,” Sorin said.

  “We believe this is where it came, called back to a part of the land that holds much power,” Relnyn added. “At noon when the sun was highest, and the Fell Hammer struck the spike that pinned Aerom to his death, the horse reared in respect and servitude and transformed back to the land it sprang from. It’s also said among my people that one day, when the All Father has need, the spirit of Aerom will animate the stone, and the horse will become as flesh again.”

  “That’s not mentioned anywhere in the Codex,” Sorin said.

  “No, it isn’t. It is elsewhere though.”

  “How can that happen?” Sorin did not know what to believe.

  The Giant shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps Oryn knows.”

  Sorin thought about it. The story of Aerom and his horse was one of the first told to young children as they attended their early Godwyn services. Aerom traveled the land, giving of himself, on his mighty, untiring steed, imparting his wisdom and good deeds of the bravest sort. For his horse to still exist in Lockwood would be considered blasphemous by many of the Godwyn faith, who believed the horse retired to the Beyond with its Master.

  “Why has no one mentioned this statue existing if it is in fact the real thing?”

  “No one knows the horse resides here.” Relnyn said. “Lockwood and these mountains are rarely visited—especially since many loathe the Ashnyll for their sad and bitter involvement with the War. Most have forgotten we even exist, relegated to legends. The Sentinels are our personal treasure, and not in memory has any Man set foot within this glade; even you wouldn’t be here right now if Oryn didn’t feel it proper and important somehow.”

  Something tugged at Sorin’s senses then, a bit of the Sentinel meadow come alive and touching his awareness with light fingers. A lilting music filled the air, coming from nowhere and everywhere, and as it grew it wrapped itself around Sorin’s heart. The Giants quieted, eyes searching the darkness. A soft, lulling song of honey and greenery, of hope and nature, of welcoming and thanks permeated the Glade. It wrapped an invisible net about Sorin, pulling him gently within its notes, the music soothing in a time when he was troubled. It overcame his sadness, and all he felt was joy for the music’s existence.

  Oryn stepped away from the Giant half-circle and into the meadow’s open space. He dropped slowly to his knees and placed both hands on his staff, its metal-shod end pressed firmly into the ground. With head lowered in concentration, a pale blue aura emanated from the staff, an unwavering nimbus of warm light that brightened the old Giant’s form and nothing more.

  In response, a flash of light above the water punctuated the darkness across the meadow where the thin creek entered the glade. Sorin squinted to find its source but it was gone just as quickly, its existence a scar left on his vision’s memory. It sparked again, fuller this time as if testing the night for predators, but it disappeared like a lightning flash.

  As Sorin held his breath, time continued on, dozens of small golden balls coalesced into being, swirling and tumbling over one another. The music intensified, drawing the observers in, and Sorin was hypnotized.

  “What are they?” Sorin whispered.

  “They are Wood Fairies, nymphs and sprites born of the forest, come out of the most remote areas of their mountain home to reaffirm and acknowledge their covenant with my people. Long ago, they shared their wisdom of the wild with a downtrodden and sorrowful race needing forgiveness. They taught us how to become one with nature, and how to shape it for the betterment of all. In the beginning, they taught us to turn from our dark past; now, we protect the forest, one in which they inhabit. The Solstice Dance is the communion of our shared life together.”

  The glowing fairies moved slowly into the center of the meadow, spiraling above even the Giants’ heads on the breezeless night. They blazed like oversized fireflies in the dark shadow of the Sentinels, all audience eyes fixed on them. Enraptured, Sorin stared deeply into one of the lights and saw the shimmering outline of one of the fairies, its body vaguely humanlike with fluttering wings.

  Sorin realized the Giants did not dance or celebrate at this festival—the fairies did. The music changed then, a palpable shift of harmony; additional tones deepened the music’s resonance. The air thrummed with crystalline delicacy, alive with beautiful sounds. Sorin’s heart swelled. The fairies danced with swaying rhythm, their movement sensuous and intoxicating. Other octaves bled into the original piece, the fairies themselves singing the new notes, their voices weaving in and out of the music. The song changed in tempo, slowing down as the Fairies slowed, and melancholy dripped from them and into Sorin. It was a dramatic piece, full of joy that turned to tragedy that became hope. Tears fell unconditionally down Sorin’s cheeks.

  One of the fairies separated from the others and danced slowly toward Sorin. The ball of light glowed amber as it approached, and he was unable to move, caught in the fairy’s light. Within the orb a tiny unclothed woman with wavy hair and long legs floated as though she were swimming. Two diaphanous wings beat like those of a hummingbird, and the light radiated from deep within her skin with kindly warmth. The smell of strawberries and chestnuts assailed him. Wetness graced his cheeks as he continued to weep.

  The fairy flew closer, and Sorin was compelled to bow low to her for reasons he did not understand. She touched his forehead lightly with her delicate hands, and love and compassion flowed into him. The part of him embracing the same values responded to it, come alive; the despair over his parents’ deaths and the angry vengeance that had staked a claim to his soul bled away. The bright flame of the fairy bolstered the goodness within him. Her cool, miniature lips kissed his forehead, lingering there while her radiance enveloped him and made him whole once more.

  The next moment she receded. Sorin watched her go with blurry vision. A murmur rippled amongst the Giants, but Sorin did not care. What had just happened touched him so deeply he knew he would never fully understand it.

&nb
sp; The other fairies had already moved away, disappearing one by one as the music lost its fullness and effect. Soon only Sorin’s fairy remained as she arced to follow her comrades. She twinkled in the distance through the dark, the lone light left in the Sentinel’s glade, and then she too was gone.

  Sorin stared at the spot where she had left for quite some time.

  * * * * *

  When the nightmare reached its inevitable, terrifying conclusion, Sorin awoke, shivering in the warm night. In the dream, he was constricted and cramped. Dark twisted things with hairy, crooked arms and evil grins groped at him, and soon their wretched breath and clawing hands smothered him. They took him down into darkness so black no light had ever penetrated it. Another being shared the abyss with him, and he had the vague remembrance of a horse’s whinny chasing him back into wakefulness.

  The dream continued to bleed into the world around him as he shivered in his bed, but soon he asserted control over his breathing, and thoughts of the evening’s events returned to wipe away most of the nightmare’s remnants. On his way back from the Sentinels, amidst looks of wonderment and distrust from some of the Giants, Sorin grappled with what had happened. The darker emotions had been cleansed from him; he was still destroyed by his parents’ loss, but he no longer desired revenge. That part had been taken, a larger truth intimately shared.

  Relnyn said nothing like it had ever happened in all the centuries they had performed the dance. Oryn had echoed his friend’s sentiments as well, adding it had been a very special night, and he told Sorin he should be honored by it.

  He got up and dressed, the nightmare still lingering, deciding that a walk might calm him before returning to sleep. Sorin entered the dewy night air and went down the walkways until he was on the ground and moving off into the darkness. No one was aware of his passing; no one was following him. He hoped Thomas would wake on the morrow so that he could share his incredible moment with him.